"That were joy, indeed, if the hand of him who loves me, the hand which has saved me from danger so often—could redeem me from this which I fear more than a thousand deaths! Promise me for love's sake!"
"I may not promise such a thing," said the young lover, with a voice which showed that her request had cut him to the heart.
"Then you love me not," said the girl, turning away.
But the look upon Constantine's face showed the terrible tragedy which was in his soul, and that such an accusation brought it too near its culmination. Instantly she threw herself into his arms.
"Forgive me! forgive me!" cried she. "I will not impugn that love which has proved itself too often. But let us speak calmly of it. Why should you shrink from this?" she asked, leading him to a seat beside her.
"Because I love you. My hand would become paralyzed sooner than touch rudely a hair of your head."
"Nay, in that you do not know yourself," said Morsinia. "Would you not pluck a mole from my face if I was marred by it in your eyes!"
"But that would be to perfect, not to harm you," said Constantine.
"And did you not hold the hand of the poor soldier to-day, while the leech was cutting him, lest the gangrene should infect his whole body with poison? And would you not have done so had he been your long lost brother, Michael, whom you loved? And would you not have done it more willingly because you loved him?"
"Yes," said Constantine, "but that would be to save life, not to destroy it."